


Trauma

by shlebs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, TW: Panic Attacks, TW: Vomit, sad sherlock is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shlebs/pseuds/shlebs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's time spent dissolving Moriarty's network has it's consequences. It seems that John never really leaves Sherlock, even when he's far away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trauma

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry, I decided to write something really angsty and awful; John forgive me for I have sinned.

**MACHINE. ******

******DICKHEAD. ******** **

**********SHOW-OFF. ******** ** ** **

The air was hollow with a lack of warmth. A sharp wind howled through the mountain side, whistling like a train's screech as it lurches from it's sleep and onto the tracks. It whistled by the entrance to the cave, blowing snow into its opening. Icicles stayed stagnant, hanging from the ceiling, leering over the stone ground. 

Inside, a small glow of orange interrupted the darkness. The flicker of a small flame illuminated the glistening rocky walls. A slumped figure rested by the fire, a thin blanket tucked around it's body. It laid like a crumpled paper doll, its posture suggesting deep remorse and defeat. Resting on top of the sheet was a woolen, black coat. 

Sherlock Holmes' lips were dusted in a thin coat of frost. He licked them, trying to use the body heat that his tongue provided to it's best use, but merely ended up sticking it to his bottom lip. He used his breath to defrost them, but within seconds, his lip had frozen over again. The rosy, glowing hue was sucked from his cheekbones, which appeared gallow in the dim light. His sea glass eyes that once contained within them excitement and the spirit of the game themselves were now empty and dead. Tear tracks stained his face, the constant battle between the freezing atmosphere and his body heat leaving them in a perpetual liquid form, but going nowhere. 

**YOU'RE WORTHLESS.**

A choked sob escaped from his lips, He smacked them together, to prevent more sobs, but they erupted from deep in his throat and the pits of his very existence. He huddled closer in his blanket, trying to find heat to no avail. He shoved his body against the cave wall, and cocooned himself further in his makeshift covers. His teeth chattered from the frigid air, but his body shook violently as a result of his despair.

**YOU'RE A FRAUD AND A FAKE. ******

"No, no, no, no, no," Sherlock whispered, his desperate baritone echoing through the cavern. His pleas bounced off the walls and felt as if they smacked him back in the face. "Stop, please."

**YOU COULD NEVER BE AS GOOD AS YOU THINK YOU ARE. ******

"I don't think that... I don't think I'm..."

**YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN EVERYONE. BUT REALLY, YOU ARE NOTHING. YOU ARE AN INFINITESIMAL SPECK IN THIS UNIVERSE, AND YOU MEAN ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. ******

Racking and heaving sobs filled the hollow space. The detective buried his face into his knees, and rocked back and forth against the stone wall. He felt like a balloon, slowly deflated as the helium seeped out of the opening. He gasped for air, but the oxygen seemingly vanished from his lungs, leaving him breathless and panicked. He swallowed, but began panting as he tried to capture the air into his lungs once more. 

The walls swirled around him, and began to slowly advance towards him. The space around him was decreasing, and he could feel it, feel the air grow stiff as the walls closed in on him. He wailed, and banged his head against the wall behind him. Over and over, he smacked his head against the stone, his soft curls doing little to prevent the damage. He retched, but his heaves were empty. Blood trickled from behind his ear, it's tangy metallic smell nauseating him to the point where he finally was able to vomit on the ground next to him. He slowly lifted his head and wiped his mouth with his torn sleeve. When he gazed around, he felt dizzy. The walls were still spinning, but he no longer felt as if they were closing in on him.

**YOU MEAN NOTHING TO ME. ******

Sherlock winced, as if he had been physically punched in the gut. His vision blurred once more with hot tears that cooled nearly instantly in the icy air after dripping from his eyes. He sniffed, sucking in air from his nose so it would not run. 

"I'm sorry..."

**SHERLOCK? ******

He opened his mouth to respond, but choked on the words. He closed it instead, and laid prostrate on the hard ground. He intertwined his legs into the grasp of his arms, locking himself into the fetal position. He rocked slightly, back and forth, in his own defeated silence. He began humming a sonata he had played once ago, and tried not to evoke images of his warm flat that came hand in hand with those of his violin. 

**ANSWER ME. ******

Sherlock howled, his voice cracking and shrill. Why wouldn't the voice leave him alone? He groveled, completely at its mercy. "I have done everything for you, only for you! Please leave me here to die. 

"Please, John."

His plea echoed once more through the cave, and rung in his own ears. He closed his eyes, and rocked. He spoke quietly to himself, reminding himself to breathe. The air felt more plentiful, and his lungs no longer screamed for air.

Lights danced around his closed lids. They reminded him of the sugar-plum fairies he had seen when his parents had taken him and Mycroft to see "The Nutcracker" for Christmas once, long ago during childhood. Mycroft had proceeded to point out every incongruity in the ballet, while a young Sherlock sat quietly, admiring his brother's intelligence, and barely acknowledging the ballet itself. Sherlock smiled softly at the memory. 

Perhaps had Mycroft not destroyed the illusion of that specific ballet, Sherlock would have never been inspired to be as clever as his dear brother, and learn how to make deductions. Perhaps had Mycroft not destroyed the illusion of that specific ballet, he would not have become a detective, and would have never been involved with Moriarty in the first place. Perhaps had Mycroft not destroyed the illusion of that specific ballet, he would not be laying on the stone ground of a Tibetan mountain in a pool of his own vomit, tortured, beaten and bruised and broken, until the only thing that could torment him was his own mind. 

**Sherlock? ******

The image of his familiar face flooded through the dancing lights and invaded the darkness of Sherlock's eyelids. The image of his light eyes were cold, with defeat and regret. It was the look that Sherlock had bore witness too, all those years ago, when he laid on the pavement in a pool of stranger's blood, and had stared lifelessly into his eyes, pretending to be dead for his friend's sake. John's image bore into him.

**Sleep now, Sherlock. ******

John faded slowly, like the light leaving a sunrise. The dancing lights vanished completely, and darkness consumed his crumbling mind palace. Sherlock lulled into his sleepy stupor. As he began to doze, his mouth formed around a word, his word, his most sacred word.

"John."


End file.
